


Lessons Learned

by TempestJo



Category: Big Bang Theory
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:05:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestJo/pseuds/TempestJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Sheldon learns on the Arctic Expedition</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold; the arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold;"

-Robert W. Service (The Cremation of Sam McGee)

 

He stood examining the landscape around him. Vast and white- it stretched for miles. On days like today with the sky as white as the snow around him, he couldn't tell where the terra firma ended and the sky began.

He shifted slightly, feeling his lashes beginning to frost,. Ah, the wonders of Cryology. It was so cold, that it didn't even feel cold, exposed epidermis was numb within seconds of stepping out the door. He'd always thought those tales of people freezing to death from having gone outside improperly clothed were fictional, that nobody could really be that idiotic, but now he could believe it. He himself had been tempted to just step out for a breath of air without putting on the layers and layers of winter clothing necessary. They were cumbersome and heavy, the scarf wrapped around his face smelled funny and tickled his nose every time he breathed, rubbed raw his chin every time he turned his head. He longed to take off the scarf and leave it tied to something, a spot of colour in the frozen whiteness but, without it, his lungs would burn and it would feel like a thousand icicles were stabbing their way down his trachea. Even with the scarf, he could feel the tingle in his lungs starting. His goatee would now be white, and when it thawed, it would send rivulets of water down his neck.

He took a few steps forward, listening to the crunch the snow-ice combination made under his boots. Guaranteed to fifty below, but he could feel his toes stiffening in them. His lower phalanges would be white when he went inside, unless he moved around a bit, got the blood flowing to his extremities. When he was little, he had longed to see snow, to go sledding, make a snowman, win a snowball fight through the use of a miniature trebuchet.

This was not the precipitation of Calvin and Hobbes though. This snow was fine and granular, and sifted through his gloved fingers like sugar or salt, not sticking to anything. The moisture sucked out somewhere in the atmosphere, during the water cycle. It was stable enough to walk on once it packed down and a crust formed, every step would break through the top layer, and leave edges almost sharp enough to cause lacerations. He had found a soft spot on their first day and gone in up to his knee. Despite his long underwear, his pants, and his thick insulated snow pants, the edge of the crust had left an angry red line on his leg.

Lesson one learned; The snow underfoot could not be trusted.

Their first storm had taught them the second. Sight is an unreliable sense . Light acted differently in this climate. Sometimes it filtered through the snow and the wind, and other times it failed completely, clinging to it's source stubbornly. He'd read that in the actual winter months, it was worse, with the seemingly eternal darkness. It was technically summer now, at least back in Pasadena; Penny would be at the beach with her friends working on her tan, coming home smelling like coconut oil and leaving a trail of sand up the stairs behind her. It was interesting how memories seemed sharper out in the cold. While he never forgot anything, the clarity was unusual even for him. Another sign it was getting time to go back inside, his mind retreating into the past instead of focusing on his actions. That was how people got hurt up here. All the guidebooks said so.

What the guidebooks didn't say, was that after a while, one craved the silence that was outside. No longer hearing the thrum of the generator, just the pure, unadulterated silence. The whispering noise of the wind blowing the fresh snow around. The bite of the harsh air on exposed cheeks made one feel alive, able to do anything, walk for miles.

Lesson number three: Don't trust the mind. Wander off here, and no one will ever, ever, find you.

He'd had an email from Mee-maw this morning. She seemed well, things were tolerable, life was ticking along nicely without him. He wished his research was progressing more. So far all he had proved was that string theory was difficult to prove, and he'd known that at home.

It was getting more difficult to move his fingers, his hands were slow to respond to the commands his brain issued. He could no longer feel his toes, or tell if he was wiggling them, His nose had ceased tingling, probably he was in the first stages of congelatio. If he closed his eyes now, his lashes would freeze together, and he wouldn't be able to see at all.

As much as he relished this chance to be here, as exhilarated as he felt every time he stepped out the door of the research station, he longed for the heat of Texas. He made his way back to the heavy steel door and pushed his way inside, then turned to push the door shut again, reluctantly.


	2. Chapter 2

Journal Entry

Week Three

Monday, Nine PM

Temperature indoors: 71 F degrees.

Temperature outdoors: -32 F

Anticipating a squall from the East.

Testing has become tedious. Day after day, the results are identical and inconclusive. We have subjected our equipment to various conditions, performing the experiment both indoors and in a tin shed which, though shelter from the wind, is all the colder for the metal of which it is comprised.

Koothrapali continually insists he is not built for temperatures such as these, to which Leonard quite eloquently replies, "Suck it up buttercup." I am appreciative of the internal rhyming scheme of that particular zing- I find it quite catchy, and used it immediately in an email to my sister. Her response was astounding. I then used her response (also quite catchy) on Wolowitz, and I do believe he tried kill me. I think I may have misinterpreted Missy's email.

Regardless, I will be watching Wolowitz carefully from now on. Like the mostly fictional character of Sam McGee, I have no desire to be buried in this icy region. Leonard did point out that this is one of two places on earth wherein cryogenic freezing is common, particularly in water burials, which would enable me to possibly be resurrected in the future. Utterly pointless information of course, as I have not yet won a Nobel prize, and the point is moot.

The infernal generator quit yesterday evening after lights out. As Team Leader and Head of the Project, I officially lay all blame for this incident on Wolowitz, who got caught up in what I can only assume was online coitus with the troll and neglected to check the diesel levels.

We have sworn to never speak of the night in question again.

I have heard from my mother. She has been spending her days praying for my sister. It seems Missy vomited in the shrubbery before church on Sunday. My mother thinks she might be pregnant. I told her it was far more likely that she over-indulged in liquor the night previous and was in the throes of what Penny terms "the hangover from hell". My mother did not seem relieved to hear this, as I had thought she might. I consulted Leonard, but he was unresponsive on the matter, stating only that he "wished someone would send him some". I took the opportunity to remind him that liquor here is strictly forbidden as per the contract I had each member of the team sign prior to our departure. It was my hope that deprived of both alcohol and females, my subordinates would buckle down to hard work. I have since concluded that my hypothesis was flawed.

There was an email from Penny today. Leonard is quite over the moon, the deluded soul. Attached was a photo of her at the beach with a friend, they were dressed for swimming; Raj and Howard are noticeably cheerier now that they have seen it. I expect there will be long showers taken tonight. It seems to be the prevailing pattern.

She informed me that she has been dusting and airing my apartment as per the schedule I left her. I wish I could detect if she is lying or not. I sincerely hope she is not touching my comic books or sitting in my spot. Nonetheless, I was pleased she included me in the email and also that she told Leonard to take good care of me. I do not need his care to survive up here but the noticeable grinding emanating from the molars in his maxila and mandibular region was entertaining. I do believe he growled.

I am, again, Halo champion of the week.

Also Chess King.

They refuse to play poker with me anymore, or games of chance. I find this disappointing but they insist counting cards is against the rules. I fail to see how anyone could not count the cards, it's basic math and probability. Any fool can do it.

Except George. He still thinks he's got thirteen lower phalanges. I checked once. He has eleven. Another reason to not donate to the sperm bank. My mother insists it's not a phalange, but her left eye twitches when she says it, declaring the statement null and void.

On a personal note, bodily functions are on schedule, and my temperature remains steady at 98.5 degrees F.

Signing off,

Sheldor. (ahaha)


	3. Chapter 3

He closed the door, and paused with his hand against it. His body was relieved to feel the heat radiating towards it, his mind was not. The crisp frigidness of the air out there was a balm to his brain. For a minute, upon his return to the building, he had thought the door locked, but it had yielded on the second try; he could hear a vociferous disagreement occurring in the common room nearby as he had pushed open the heavy door. These disturbances were more common now.

As much as he loved the solitude and seclusion, he couldn't help but think it would be improved upon if the others were not there.

Morale was low. They tried to hide it, but he heard the whispers, he saw the looks. Their petty disagreements were of no use to him. He waited for silence to fall before lowering his hood, removing the hated scarf, the toque. He did not want to hear what it was about this time. His experiment was continuing along its path with a pronounced lack of significant findings, of any findings. Repeatedly, he ran through the numbers; his math was perfect. The experiment must be flawed. It was too soon to concede defeat though, there were more variables to adjust. He would continue- every day a new attempt.

Hanging the parka on his hook, making certain his heavy boots were perfectly aligned underneath it, he made his way to his room. The common area would be abounding with sulky glares for another half hour until Penny's twice weekly email came through, and then at last order would be restored. It was Halo 1 night. The prospect of blowing each other up should ease the palpable tension.

The room he claimed as his own was small. A tiny window, a pressed-board wardrobe, a desk so miniscule he could barely fit his laptop and a mug of hot cocoa simultaneously on it. Hot cocoa without little marshmallows.

The bed was small as well, generously deemed a three-quarter size mattress. It was sufficient, but not comfortable. A heavy grey blanket spanned it, similar to the ones they hand out on aeroplanes. He had chosen this room specifically because of this small grey bed. It was by far the largest available, all others being bunks and unsuitable for someone of his height.

He spent a fair bit of time in this white walled room, letting his mind process data.

Often his thoughts would turn to home, more specifically, to Penny. An inordinate amount of time was spent thinking of Penny. Her bright hair, her laugh, the way she snarled at him at the Cheesecake Factory every Tuesday but brought him his order exactly as he requested it. Did she miss them? She claimed she did, always ending her correspondence with "miss you all,". Was it merely social convention that prompted her to type those words in farewell, or did she, in fact, mean it? And if she did mean it, did she miss them all as one unit or did she miss them individually, and if so, did she miss some more than others? Of greater importance was the troubling question: did he, in fact, miss her? Why could he perfectly see her fumbling with the keys at her door, or trying to occupy his spot? Why could he smell her whenever he indulged in ice cream? Why did she occupy so much of his thoughts?

And equally puzzling, would she continue to do so when he returned home?

Several hours of deep contemplation over some days had indicated she would. He found his mind going over past events, examining them with a new perspective brought on by the extreme temperatures and isolation. At Christmas she had given only given Leonard a gift certificate for motorcycle lessons, something Leonard didn't want and would never use, while she had gifted him Leonard Nimoy's DNA, something he didn't even know she knew he wanted. What were her reasons for that, had she been attempting to send some kind of signal? She had seemed so happy when he hugged her, at the time he had been overcome with intense excitement, but, looking back, he heard her voice, how tentatively she had touched him, as if she were dreaming. Her giggle. Had there been tears in her eyes? She seemed to receive more pleasure from that brief embrace than from all the gift baskets and any gifts he had chosen for her after. Did she value physical intimacy the way he valued the DNA of his idol? More reflection showed no. Penny was affectionate in a physical way, yes, but she did not seem to take much satisfaction from the hugs of others. Leonard included. It was just him then. She had revelled in the embrace because he was giving it.

It was him that she came to for advice during her Age of Conan days, despite the fact Leonard was also ranked above her, and would have sold his comic collection to have her waking him up in the night. He remembered the men he had seen leaving her apartment early in the morning or the ones picking her up for a date, all of them tall like himself. Unlike Leonard.

The time he had banned her from the apartment, he had been severely annoyed and slightly furious, too caught up in uncustomary emotion to notice hers. With a cool head, he could see her fury but also her hurt. He could see that Penny lashed out when she was feeling emotionally wounded, similar to himself. He could see the moment when he had gone to far. He'd been so proud of the theft and hanging of her delicates. Now he could see the moment when she had shut off her emotions, her fury had changed from something emotionally driven to something else. Colder, more distant. He now wished he had never hung her things out on the line, never stolen them at all. What if he had chosen something else as a prank? What if he had just locked her out of the laundry room?

He had vowed to himself at an early age that nothing would stand in the way of his life's goal- A Nobel prize with his name on it. Dedication to his work had left no time for women and he had been glad, but somehow Penny had inserted herself in his circle. She had come to depend on him for advice, sustenance, and comfort. Against his best intentions and his indomitable will, he had developed protective instincts towards her. Feelings. He found himself hoping that the experiment would succeed, so that his personal vow would be complete and, Nobel Prize in hand, he would be able to allow himself to pursue some kind of relationship with her. He dared not think beyond that. He would do nothing until he had won the Nobel.

He sat there now, reminding himself of this. The Nobel must come first. He had spent too much of his life devoted to it to abandon the quest now.


	4. Chapter 4

Journal Entry

Week Eight

Friday, Nine PM

Temperature Indoors: 71F

Temperature Outdoors: -42 +Windchill

Blowing snow

Eureka!

I've done it! After hours of exhaustive manipulations of both variables and equipment, and undertaking middle of the night testing in teams, I've done it! Two nights ago, Raj and I were at our station when it happened. A blip on the radar. Slow moving molecules, detected! The signal was not very long, perhaps thirty seconds, before it disappeared. The next night, nothing. I can only assume Wolowitz and Leonard were sleeping on the job, as tonight, yet again, I have results! I am jubilant! The Nobel Prize is as good as mine!

I have resolved to take all night shifts. I have only four weeks left to collect as much data as I can; I only regret that I did not think to initiate night testing sooner. It does not matter.

Already I have sent an email to Gablehouser, telling him to alert the Nobel committee. I will have a report done and ready to be published within one week of coming home. Success at last! I, Sheldon Lee Cooper, have proven String Theory!

I also sent an email to Ms. Winkle, advising her to begin choosing another line of work, perhaps something in the service industry, like garbage disposal. I have not emailed Penny. I will wait to tell her in person, then, when they announce my name as recipient of this year's Nobel Prize award, I will bring her along to witness my triumph, proving my worth as a suitor and biological mate. After a suitable amount of time and courting rituals have passed, I will propose marriage and begin the rituals of procreation with the result of progeny in mind. Perhaps once we have a few offspring of our own, she will let me have the ovum to create my own Leonard Nimoy. I find the prospect fascinating. Of course, she will want to continue her pursuit of acting fame and fortune, but I find no disagreement to this, as in order to insure our offspring have the best possible education, I will need to tutor them from an early age.

I am getting ahead of myself. Focus is key. I must ensure that I get the best possible data. I hereby banish all thoughts of Penny and the future from my consciousness until the moment I hand in my research as complete.

The others do not seem as excited as I, perhaps because the reality that I have made a valuable contribution to society with my work and they have not is sinking in. I, for one, am too happy to pander to their little insecurities, I have as good as won the Nobel Prize!

S. Cooper


	5. Chapter 5

"Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has it's own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load."

R. Service (The Cremation of Sam McGee)

 

 

He lay on the bed, staring unseeing at the space in front of him. In the months that had passed since his return, he had done exactly this, a hundred times. One hundred and thirty two to be exact. His perfect memory allowing him instant playback; every scene like it had happened yesterday.

The confession from Rajesh and Howard.

The confrontation with Leonard in front of Penny.

The bitter collapse of three months work, the smear to his reputation, the humiliation of recalling emails and recanting claims that he, Sheldon Lee Cooper, had proven String Theory.

The lessons had been hard ones, bitter ones. The Arctic had not been done with him yet.

Lesson four: Never stop being alert to your surroundings.

He should have paid attention. Instead of sitting in his room avoiding the conflict, hypothesizing about his future with the girl next door, he should have been watching. He would have seen the way the Arctic isolation was adversely effecting his friends. Unlike him, they were not reveling in the time to think. What had been setting him free had been driving them mad.

Perhaps he would have noticed the multitude of open cans that he could now remember seeing in the fridge. Perhaps he would have paused to consider why the others were eating so many canned peaches, when they continued to complain about never wanting to see peaches again. The glances should have warned him; the whispers, both frustrated and angry, should have alerted him but he had ignored them all, grown complacent, believing they would never do anything to compromise the science. He had focused on the dangers of the cold outside, and not the damage the people inside could do to him.

His closest friends.

Lesson five: Don't trust your friends.

They had plotted to kill him. Tampered with research, nearly ruined his career, certainly ruined his credibility. All of his hopes and dreams for the future were put on hold or flushed like human feces down the drain because of them. Even now, they brushed it off.

They didn't know what they had cost him.

By now, he would have had the Nobel. He would have been the one taking Penny out to dinner. His only consolation was that he had not divulged his plans to them. They would never know how much damage they had caused him.

His friends.

His best friend.

His best friend who fabricated experimental results and jeopardized everything and then walked away with the girl.

Penny.

He had been gratified that she had proven him right, even if he could do nothing about it. She had chosen him over Leonard, in that she made Leonard apologize, explain his loathsome actions then she had come into his room to comfort him as best she could. He wondered what would have happened if, in that moment, curled on his bed, with her telling him the story of her high-school years, he had confessed all? His plans for them. His feelings. The thought was always futile and fleeting. He did not want her pity. He would not do it any differently, that part he would never have done differently. He would go to Penny when he had success in his hands, and not before. The Nobel Prize must be his priority

It occurred to him that by the time that happened, she may no longer be there, across the hall, or even in California, but he did not dwell on it. He couldn't. His career lay in ruins at his feet; the only thing that could keep him going, past the whispers, the sneers, and the self doubt, which had never been there before, was the thought that if he won the Nobel Prize, he could try for Penny. It was only this that kept him getting out of bed those first few mornings after. It was only this that had sent him back to work, more determined, more wary, than ever before.

Winning the Nobel had become a stepping stone.

Win the Nobel, pass go, try for the ultimate life prize.

Penny.

And if he won it for proving String Theory, so much the better.


End file.
